


relapse

by TwistofAPen



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Depression, Self-Harm, ridiculously self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistofAPen/pseuds/TwistofAPen
Summary: Logically, he knows that this will pass. He will drag his way out of the pit and he will remember what warmth feels like. And he willmanage, as he’s always done.But that's not what he feels right now. That's not how it works.(In which Alex struggles with himself, and Aaron is there for him.)





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**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags. Self-harm is explicitly described in this fic.

  
It's not a gradual decline. The thoughts get pushed down as far as Alex can manage and it's all completely, one hundred percent manageable until it isn't.

It's Friday morning, and he reaches into the cupboard to make his morning cup of coffee before remembering that he’d been meaning to buy a new jar for a week. He’d finally emptied out the last of it yesterday. He turns to the fridge and there's a scribbled note from his past self, stickied to the door. _Replenish the fucking coffee._

_Great._ Alex tosses the empty jar into the bin with more force than necessary, and it hits the bottom with a satisfying _thunk_. Closing his eyes, he lets his head fall back to rest against the kitchen cupboards.

"It's just coffee, you'll be fine," he says. Sometimes it helps to pretend that it's really just about the coffee. But there’s a heaviness in his bones and a thick grey fog that's settled over his mind from the moment Alex woke up this morning, and he feels, with a weary intimacy, the feeling of the world weighing down upon him.

Logically, he knows that this will pass. He will drag his way out of the pit and he will remember what warmth feels like. And he will _manage_ , as he’s always done.

But that's not what he feels right now. That's not how it works.

 

* * *

 

  
An hour later, Alex sits at his desk with a mug of lukewarm tea. It's the weekend, and he's at home, but work wasn't something you could leave behind anymore. So instead he's here, laptop open in front of him and a growing number of unread emails with polite, passive aggressive subject headings. 

His fingers tighten around the mug. He imagines the high-pitched crash of porcelain against the wall. The black shards shattering across the floor, smooth and sharp —

The phone rings, sound cutting through the moment. It's enough. Alex steadies himself back in reality with deep breaths. One, two, three. He lets his emotions bleed away as he exhales.

His phone lies waiting on the table with a new message from Eliza.

_Brunch tomorrow? Feels like we haven't caught up in ages. We've all been missing you!_

Alex swallows.

 _Sorry_ , he taps out. _I -_

Delete.

_Really sorry, just been swamped with -_

He holds down backspace until the words erase themselves from the screen, fingers hesitating over the keys. He's running out of ways to say no, and he knows they deserve better, but he can't meet with any of them right now. Not like this.

Eventually, he shuts his phone off without replying. It beeps again a few minutes later.

_And if you use work as an excuse again, we're breaking into your apartment and dragging you out by your hair._

He switches his phone to silent.

The time on his screen reads 10:39 am. It's only morning and already Alex just wants to crawl back into bed and never get out.

On his laptop, another new email notification pops up - _Attn Required Re: Ca..._

Alex shuts down his laptop. He leaves his phone on the table as he heads towards the door.

 

* * *

 

  
The farmer’s market is two stops and a ten minute walk away. He cuts through a park filled with kids sitting on the grass, people walking their dogs and joggers streaking past with earbuds jammed in their ears.

Alex had forged himself in the fires of this city, high on possibilities and yearning for the power to change things, to put his hands into the earth of his country and make it _better_. He'd sold his soul just to get through the doors. His mother had believed in his dreams.

And now he stands on a sidewalk as people sweep past him, millions of lives being lived, and Alex is hit with the sudden, inexorable feeling that he's left a vital part of himself behind.

He tips his head towards the brightly shining sun. Closes his eyes. The light glows red through his eyelids and he's waiting for the warmth of it, the gentle heat across his skin, but it never quite reaches.

 

* * *

 

By the time Alex arrives at the market it's almost noon, and the space is filled with noise and chatter. He weaves his way through the stalls with easy familiarity. Aaron's coming back from D.C this evening, which is a relief because Alex is tired of cooking for one.

He flicks through his mental catalogue of recipes, a library of culinary knowledge founded upon a childhood of sitting on the counter watching his mother cook. It’s simpler to just focus on the situation of what to buy for dinner, and as he converses with the shopkeepers, a blanket of calm settles over his mind.

They bag the salmon he picks out, its scales shiny and its eyes bright and clear. He gets some asparagus and mushrooms, picks out some herbs, and buys a new jar of coffee at the nearest store.

By the time he returns to his apartment its early afternoon, and his sweater smells faintly of coffee from the cafe he stopped by for lunch. He unpacks the groceries, makes a new cup of coffee, and sits himself back at his desk.

 _1:15_ , the clock reads.

He can do this. He can.

 

* * *

 

  
The world that Alex dreams of goes like this:

He wakes up tangled in the sheets, Aaron already half-dressed and in the bathroom yelling at him, _get your ass out of bed before you're late_. There's a dog somewhere underfoot; maybe three.

Alex gets his ass out of bed. He gets his coffee, lets Aaron fix his tie with fond exasperation and goes to work, where he has made himself into someone that cannot be ignored, someone with the power to shape his country's future into what he knows it can become.

When he comes home, Aaron is there with takeout, or maybe Alex is home first and Aaron slips in later in the evening, suit rumpled and tired eyes that light up when they see Alex - it doesn't matter. They are together, and Alex is content.

 

The reality of it is this:

There is an itch running under his skin, need steadily gnawing at his bones. His brain is slowly shaking itself apart. And Alex is tired. And the apartment is silent. And he is alone.

He presses his palms into his eyes until stars of white burst across the backs of his eyelids. _Just one time._  Push it down. _No one would even notice, please._  You’ve been clean for over a year. Y _ou need it. Just once._  

He breaks.

 _Weak._  

His mind chants  _don’tdon’tdon’t_ even as he moves towards the dresser, and his fingers reach into the drawer, digging deep under a pile of faded sweaters. Fingertips brush against smooth plastic. Pull out the small white case. The latch clicks open with a sigh.

Steri strips, antiseptic cream, rubbing alcohol, gauze patches, medical scissors. Alex reaches into the case for the centrepiece of the display, and like a switch has been flipped, his mind quiets.

The blade slides out with a soft _snick_ , and the sound of it feels like a reunion. He uncaps the bottle of rubbing alcohol and presses it to a ball of cotton, wiping down the edge of the steel blade. The sharp, acrid smell of it unlocks a flood of memories.

The blade sings to him. He runs his thumb along its edge before pressing it against his fingertip, just lightly enough that the skin curves down without giving way. The muted warning of anticipated pain sends a thrill running down his spine.

He settles down, the bed dipping under his weight as he discards his pants and stretches his leg out against the sheets. The pattern of old scars stand out against his thigh, white and faded.

He selects an unmarked spot on his skin. Pushes down with a slow, unwavering insistence until the pain rises to an edge-sharp keen, his hand steady and firm against the skin and he’s not breathing, nothing is breathing now and it's just the feeling of anticipation thrumming through his veins, and then the skin breaks and gives way beneath the steel.

Electricity races out from under his skin, spreads like lightning throughout his body. His nerves are on fire, a primal part of his body crying _nowaitstop_.

And then silence; a release.

Alex exhales. The momentary relief feels so much like freedom Alex feels like crying.

His head falls back against the headboard as his eyes slowly shut, muscles relaxing, the ball of his foot pressed down against the soft give of the mattress. He eases up the pressure on the blade. When he tips his head down, he sees the red line bloom, thin and unassuming.

Fingers trailing downwards a half-inch, he measures out the space and lowers the blade again.

One. Two. Three.

The pain winds through him and twists into his chest with every cut -- a heady, mind-numbing rush.

When his eyes slide back downwards to witness the result, his body is catching up, lurching to attention of the wound. Blood slowly forms against the cuts, trapped, the wound too thin for it to freely spill. The pain of it begins spreading outwards across his thigh.

A packet of gauze patches lie ready and open by his side. Alex takes one and presses it down against the cuts, registering the brief spike of pain. He watches as blood blossoms out into the finely woven threads. The red unfurls in a slow, methodical sweep, dark against the expanse of white. An invasion in slow-motion.

“Alex?”

Everything stutters and freezes. 

Alex looks up, his heart dropping. Aaron is standing at the door of the bedroom, suit slightly wrinkled from his flight. His tie hangs loose and untied against his neck, hand clenched tight against the doorknob.

Alex can't move. It feels like time has slowed. He watches as Aaron’s eyes flick down to the open case by his side, looking more lost than Alex has ever seen him before. An apology catches at the back of his throat - battling against the part of him that is weary and relieved. He knows Aaron has seen the scars, has brushed his fingers across the raised skin with a gentleness that warmed him as they lay tangled up in bed at night, but they've never really discussed it. Some old wounds didn't seem worth reopening.

Alex expects him to say something now, but he doesn’t. Aaron steps forward, falters, and steps closer again until he reaches the bed. There’s a brief instinctual surge of panic, _hide it don’t let him see_ , but Aaron’s eyes are locked on the open case, and a part of Alex is so very tired of hiding.

There’s a soft exhale that magnifies itself in the silence, and then Aaron very, very slowly sits himself down by the edge of the bed. A wasteland of space separates them.

Alex sees Aaron take in the scene - the knife, the wound, the first aid kit - before flicking over to his face. His lips flatten downwards, expression tightening. The silence stretches on infinitely.

Slowly, Aaron picks up the disinfectant and pours some onto a clean patch of gauze. He reaches out with his other hand but stops right before touching Alex. His eyes dart up, uncertain, before he deliberately rests his free palm against Alex's knee.

Alex closes his eyes briefly at the touch, something thin and fragile rising up inside him. He feels Aaron run his thumb back and forth against the skin in small, slow circles as he begins to clean the cut. His movements are gentle, but the alcohol is biting against his wounds and despite himself Alex exhales sharply. Beside him, Aaron stills.

It's so quiet now.

 _Do you remember,_ Alex almost says, but the words get caught in his throat. The memory has no such barrier; it unfolds with crystal clarity. 

 

  


It had been like this, just three months earlier; the two of them bent close to each other. Alex had been trying to teach Aaron how to make beef stew, peeling and chopping the vegetables one by one.

Alex had started heating up the pot, and he'd turned abruptly at the clatter of the knife hitting the board to see Aaron, swearing, hand held awkwardly against his chest.

"What happened? Hey, let me see."

"It's fine, it's fine, I think I just sliced it."

"Let me _see_." Alex reached out and Aaron let him, finger held gently up for Alex's inspection. It was beginning to bleed, but the cut was shallow. Alex sighed. "It's not deep."

"Told you."

Alex rolled his eyes. "I think my heart stopped for a second, there. Pretty sure the last time I actually heard you swear was when you -"

 _"_ We _don't_ _talk about that,_ Hamilton."  

Alex's lips twitched upwards into a grin. He dug out the first aid kit and guided Aaron towards the kitchen stool. Aaron was quiet as Alex gently cleaned the cut, applying a small band aid around it before stepping back.

"Done. Good as new."

Aaron looked down at it. "I'm thinking maybe I'll leave the chopping and dicing to you from now on."

"Giving up so quickly, Burr? All it takes is a little practice." Alex glanced at the bandaged finger. "And care."

"But why do that when I have a gorgeous boyfriend with amazing knife skills?"

"Then what'll you do when I'm not there, smart guy?"

Aaron tugged Alex down onto his lap and kissed him, warm and confident. "Then I'll wait for you."

 

  
Alex watches as Aaron now finishes cleaning the last cut and stops, looking uncertainly at the bandages. Almost the same scene and yet everything is different; nothing feels the same.

He stops Aaron from reaching for the bandages, covering Aaron’s hand with his own. “It’s not deep,” he says.

Aaron’s mouth flattens. “You-” he cuts off. Roughly runs a hand through his hair.

 _You idiot,_ Alex thinks, waiting. _You stupid shit. You are pathetic. You're not worth my time. You-_

Aaron exhales and pulls him into a hard hug.

It’s only because Alex’s ear is now pressed to his chest that he hears Aaron's heart racing. It sounds like a drum beat gone off-track, like the violin in a thriller right before someone gets killed.

 _This is it_ , Alex thinks. _This is the part where you ruin the things you love,_  and then Aaron’s chest begins to hitch; soft, almost inaudible exhales of breath. He clutches Alex more tightly and his body begins to shake.

The guilt slides into Alex’s veins, thick and viscous. He wraps his arms around Aaron and shifts until he’s tucked tightly against his collarbone, pressing his mouth against his skin, over and over. It's the closest thing Alex has to an apology.

Aaron makes a soft, choked sound. Pulls back just long enough to curl his fingers around his face and kiss him, clumsy and shaky with emotion. And his fingers are pressing just a little too tight against Alex’s head, and when Alex touches his face to bring him close there’s wetness on his cheeks, and Aaron kisses him and kisses him and he doesn’t ask which one of them Alex is apologising for hurting.

 

* * *

 

  
They stay like that for awhile, wrapped up in each other. Alex slips his pants back on, cuts and old scars disappearing under the worn fabric. Aaron's fingers trail invisible letters along Alex's arm. He runs his fingers through Alex’s hair, and the tranquility of it settles around Alex like a blanket.

Aaron is his cornerstone. Without him Alex feels like wildfire, unconfined and uncontrolled, burning everything he touches. His thoughts skitter without a way to pull himself back. Here, like this - he could stay in this moment forever.

But Alex knows better.

Aaron’s stomach abruptly growls. The sound vibrates through Alex's entire body, curled up against his. Alex feels a smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and when he looks up, Aaron's wearing an expression equal parts embarrassed and uncertain.

“Come on.” Alex moves out of Aaron's arms and tugs him towards the kitchen. At some point it’s turned dark; the hours have clicked away.

“Takeout?” Aaron says casually; only a slight waver betrays the steady tone.

“I’ll fix something up. It’ll be quicker than delivery.” Everything’s half-prepped in the fridge, cleaned and ready to cook. A welcome home.

Alex glances at Aaron as he takes out the ingredients. He's wearing a troubled expression, and he opens his mouth before shaking his head abruptly. “Sounds good,” he says instead, and a quiet relief washes through Alex. “You know I’d die for your cooking any day.”

“Please don’t actually, though,” Alex says, “because killing people with their cooking is not actually something chefs want.”

Aaron's smile is slight, almost unwilling. “Noted.”

Alex slices the vegetables quickly. The knife is familiar in his hand, an extension of himself. Between the two of them, Alex had always been the chef, armed with a childhood of memories by his mother’s side in the kitchen. Today, Alex feels intensely aware of the sharp steel as he slices down onto the board. He feels Aaron’s gaze on his back. He doesn’t turn to look.

“Can you get the butter?” he says instead.

Aaron takes a stick of butter out of the fridge as Alex gets the pan on the stove and lights the fire. He slices out a decent chunk of it, and it sizzles the moment it hits the pan. The aroma of melted butter instantly fills the air.

“Smells amazing already,” Aaron murmurs.

The fish goes in, skin side down. In a separate pan Alex start sautéing the asparagus and mushrooms, switching back to the fish to add in the wine and marinade before letting the flavour seep in.

“Got the -?”.

"Right here." Aaron hands over the plate he'd had ready, and Alex tips out the fish and vegetables.

Aaron eyes the food with admiration and sighs. “Have I mentioned how lucky I am to have you in my life?”

The line is familiar, but the tone of Aaron’s voice makes Alex turn, a waver: _have you in my life?_

Like Aaron has no idea. Like he has no idea how important he’s been in bringing Alex to this moment here in their small apartment, alive and breathing. “All the time,” Alex says quietly.

Their usual script falls apart in front of them. Alex curses his stupid mouth and tugs Aaron to the kitchen counter before he can speak, pushing his plate in front of him. "C'mon, I know for a fact you're starving," he says, and Aaron takes the plate. 

Over dinner, Aaron talks about the social services project he’s working on with Jefferson. Alex talks about his new client. It's so simple to fall back into their routine of food and conversation, except sometimes Alex looks up and catches Aaron looking back, eyes soft and dark and filled with something indecipherable.

“Movie?” Aaron asks, after the food is gone and the dishes have been cleared.

“Mm. You pick.”

Aaron puts something into the DVD player, and seconds later the familiar logo of a blue castle fills the screen. It's not Aaron's usual watching preferences, but it is Alex's. When he sits back on the couch, Alex fits himself around him, head resting perfectly against Aaron’s shoulder. He feels Aaron’s arm curl around him, and the soft press of lips on the top of his head.

Aaron’s eyes are focused on the screen, but the voices flow right past Alex without registering. Aaron's body feels solid and warm against him, and he can feel the rise and fall of the man’s chest, steady and secure. It scares him sometimes, the depth of feeling Alex has for the man sitting beside him. There is no future he can imagine, wants to imagine, that doesn't have Aaron in it.

At some point after the end of a musical sequence, Aaron reaches for the remote and turns down the volume. The room falls into a muted silence, TV reduced to a jumble of tinny sound. Alex sees him take a deep breath before he speaks.

“I want you to know,” Aaron says, without looking at him, “that if you ever needed to, or wanted to – you can always call me. Doesn't matter what time it is or where I am. I'll always pick up. And I’m not saying you have to, but if – if you wanted to. Okay?”

Alex looks at him, at the downward tilt of his lips and the creased lines on his forehead, the way he’s very carefully looking at the screen like if he looks straight at Alex it will break this precious, fragile gift he's placed between them.

Not a demand, but a choice.

“Okay,” Alex says. It's only after he says it that he realizes - he means it.

Aaron exhales shakily. "Okay," he says, before abruptly turning around to hug him, and Alex catch the redness in his eyes before Aaron’s gripping him tight against his chest.

 _Maybe..._ A tiny wisp of a thought curls around the edges of Alex's mind.

Taking a deep breath, he leans into Aaron's arms. He lets go. And Aaron holds him tight, tucks Alex's head against his chest and doesn't let him fall. He whispers something so softly Alex doesn't hear it, and then he presses a kiss to Alex's forehead, conveying with it a hundred things beyond what words can give.

And Alex closes his eyes in the quiet and the warmth and thinks that maybe, maybe...this is enough.

 


End file.
